Desolation
by SilverCascade
Summary: Sam struggles to deal with the loss of his brother and the angel. Set immediately after Survival of the Fittest. Genfic. Three-shot, canon-compliant.
1. Abatement

**A/N:**_ Thanks to Megan for being a great beta!_

* * *

Sam Winchester was truly alone. He stood, a statue with a jerking head, disbelieving the words of the demon. Crowley had vanished, dragging the prophet with him.

With a gulp, he staggered through the hallways, instinct clawing at him to battle the beasts still reigning over the building. Eyes wide and grip on sanity slipping, he swayed as he stepped forward, plodding unsteadily like a deer in the headlights. His knees gave way and he toppled forward.

The roof of his mouth felt furry and thirst dried up his throat. Sam swallowed the prickly seeds of emotion, vision still swimming, and dragged himself to his feet; his hands clamped around the crumbling pillars.

"The Impala," he murmured, and in a few dizzying moments he stood tall, vision clear and a single focus in his mind. The car. He had to save the car before Dean returned. Sam let out a dry croak of empty laughter; Dean would be so pissed if he let the Leviathans ruin his Baby.

Breaking into a run, the worn hunter moved with the one thought, the one doable purpose fixed in his mind. _I can't save them right now, but I can save the car!_ He bolted through the lab's stark rooms, choking, eyes watering at the chemical laced air, blurred gaze darting over decapitated beasts that festered in pools of their own black blood. Slamming the doors open with the side of his shoulder, he took the stairs three at a time, unable to allow himself to waste precious seconds waiting for the lift.

Crashing through the locked doors leading to the foyer, he was struck by the sudden scene of violence thrust upon him. The monsters fought the monsters, and Sam could only stare as the few demons easily sliced through the bones of the charging leviathans. As heads rolled and bodies sank to their knees, the demons cackled with malice, black eyes gleaming.

"C'mon and join in the fun," nodded a demon, a lanky youth with dark hair and ivory skin that made his tar eyes glitter like onyxes. He threw Sam a sword; instinct led him to lean forward and grab the hilt before the blade sliced through his hand. Standing there, he stupidly looked at the sword and then the massacre around him, feet glued to the smooth tile. It felt too hot, the tightly bound leather burning his skin. He dropped it with a gasp.

The demon, whose dark stare was locked on the clattering sword, did not see the man bolt.

And bolt he did; the younger Winchester took off as fast as his powerful stride could carry him, passing the carnage of the leviathans outside and the victorious cries of Crowley's army as they slaughtered with ease. He brushed past demons in mid-swing, as silent as a shadow as they brought down lustrous swords in powerful blows. Sam ducked and weaved, the sunlight surprisingly soothing against his heated skin. The next thing he knew, the sturdy man found himself beside his brother's most beloved possession.

The dark jacket of Dean's Baby glimmered, bright lines of light illuminating the contours of her body. Her windows, like eyes, were shattered through, glittering shards of glass spilling into the thick leather seats and the grass surrounding her, a deathbed of verdant Astroturf. The wing mirrors stood askew but were thankfully still intact, and the rims of her wheels, save for one, had been ripped off from the impact.

Sam shook his head at the state of the car, stooping to retrieve the rims from the cushioning false grass. Dean had known it was the end; he wouldn't have let Meg destroy his Baby had he even the slightest chance of returning to her. Sam entered, brushing the majority of the glass away with the palm of a calloused hand, wincing as the dull ache began in the cuts.

_You've got one minute, Meg._

Sam didn't know the fate that befell the demon, and promptly wondered what the hell was taking her so long. He bit his lip, silently watching the guillotining of countless black-hearted monsters; he was transfixed, as once the heads hit the ground, they stayed there. There was no sudden jump where the bloody stump of a severed neck melded with the still-writhing body.

_For once,_ thought the hunter with a bitter smile, _what's dead stays that way._

He threw a glance at the cracked dashboard of the Impala, and then out at the massacre; there wasn't a single sign of the demon. He knew he couldn't wait much longer, and reasoned that the demon would be all right; she had probably gotten herself out of worse situations. It was his brother and the angel he had to worry about.

With that thought and the dreadful uncertainty that came with it, he pushed, testing his foot against the accelerator; he revved up the car. It creaked and clunked, and Sam winced. _She sounds awful. Dean won't be pleased._

Nevertheless he had to get out of there, and since he had no other means of escape, he slammed his foot down. The engine roared. Together, the man and the car shot off into the distance, crashing through the metallic-plastic structure, revving straight through and smashing the gateway to Richard Roman Enterprises once and for all.

* * *

Whenever he felt his eyelids become heavy, he would turn the hard rock on the radio up, weary hand fumbling with the dial until the shock of the pumping music shook him from sleep. Sam had lost track of how long he'd been driving. The sun had been there for a while and now it was gone - the pattern repeated itself countless times. He did not stop, save to relieve himself and fuel up both his wooden body and the Impala. He made do with sleazy gas stations on both accounts.

Sam had not slept. He couldn't sleep, for the thoughts flipped and whirled through his skull every time his eyes closed. At least when driving, the delirious mind had something on which to focus: not crashing. The goal was not for himself, per se, but more so to keep the Impala running and avoiding any more damage. After all, the least he could do was keep the car safe.

Baby, it seemed, had not been quite as damaged internally as she had first appeared to be. The scars and wounds were mainly exterior, and she was still running relatively smoothly despite her accident with her previous (if temporary) driver.

Never before had Sam been so thankful for a car and its capacity to keep him sane.

He absently hummed along to some ancient tune on the radio. It was an old Beatles number, as he had switched over from Hard Rock Xtreme to Classic Nostalgia. It was soothing, and he could feel himself drifting off again, lids closing as dawn broke over the horizon. Golden orange light peeked over the highway, seeping in through the car's jagged window.

He snapped awake again, the warmth of the light on his lids lulling him back down, and the rev of the car startled him into a sharp state. I should stop soon. I could use another coffee.

**(Stop before she breaks down, moron)**

The voice in the back of his head had started up again, muttering. He scolded himself often, though this had a ring of his old, unwanted bunk buddy. He banished the thought immediately. Coffee, the Impala, and the road ahead was all that mattered. All Sam wanted was to get away before the crushing feeling of failure swamped him again, of being unable to save his brother.

_One job. Keep an eye on Dean._ He had gone to the ends of the earth to find someone to help Sam when he was locked up in the grimy asylum. He had found Cas, albeit with the help for a ghostly Bobby, and they had saved him. The feeling of guilt returned, a dull gnawing at the pit of his stomach, at being unable to help the duo wherever they were.

_If they're still alive._

The angel had helped them countless times, and even redeemed himself in Sam's eyes for breaking the wall when the crazy seeped out of his bones and wormed its way into the mind of the divine being. Dean had looked out for Sam their entire lives, saving him time and time again; from stopping him eating snails when he was barely two, flicking his hand away and sending the slimy sucker flying, and hiding his razors during the phase when things got too rough and he couldn't handle himself. He had, even recently, acted selfless; from selling his soul and saving his little brother's ass in battle to driving across the country to find someone, anyone, who could help him when he was going insane.

Failure crept back, dragging its claws through his throat and filling his mouth with bitterness. It followed him like a curse; he had never been able to save his brother - not from Hell, not from his destiny (as Dean had gotten them both out of that mess) and not even from the Leviathan-turned-politician. Whatever Dick had done with them, Sam knew it would not be pleasant.

**(Why aren't you looking?)**

_I don't know where to look._

A crack of a whip cut through the sky and the heavens exploded into a furious shower, the clouds finally ridding themselves of a great weight. Darkness grew darker still as clouds of charcoal collected overhead and the barrage of rain slammed into the metallic overcoat, a consistent dull thud, like the sound of drums, a steady rhythm. The sheet battered the car and the man inside, flooding through the gashes in her side. Bursts of rain spattered into his face until he could no longer see.

Rational thought grappled with the desire to go on, to drive until both he and the car ran out. The former won, and with a defeated sigh, the sopping wet man trailed into the first sleazy motel he could find, throwing the money on the desk and picking up his key. Rainwater plopped onto the threadbare carpet as he trudged into the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

Sam threw the bag on the bed and flopped alongside it, exhaustion tightly wound into his muscles. Heavy eyelids fell, lashes brushing the tender skin where darkness resided from lack of sleep. He welcomed it like an old friend but the vague blanket of uncertain thought swamped him; voices called and murmured and whispered, a rush of incessant sound that offered him no peace.

A sharp burn lit his belly when the whiskey splashed onto his lips, trickling down his throat. Falling back again, the knot in his stomach loosened by the tender fingers of drink, he contemplated his position. Occasionally, he would bring the bottle to his mouth and take it away again, the ferocious drink burning a path to his stomach.

_It's too quiet. He isn't here._ The stillness of the room reminded him of the stark contrast of his brother's first disappearance; back then he had dragged the torn, bloodied body outside. He had been shaking uncontrollably and trying to avoid the dead, glassy gaze. He'd called Bobby. The sight of his brother in the Impala, head lolling and body limp, was too much to handle. Bobby had been the rock, and Sam had been kept busy, planning and digging the grave. Dean did not get a hunter's funeral, no. This once, they would be normal; Dean's soul might have been in Hell, but his body, still intact, could rest in peace.

Now, only emptiness remained. Dean and Castiel had vanished without so much as a trace, and there was nobody that could help him retrieve them. The motel room was too quiet without the sounds of Dean singing along to some hits from the cheap radio, or his clunking as he prepared his things for the night, toothbrush and paste, shaving cream, deodorant, and razors.

His vision swayed, blurring into a dull brown, and he finally let the sleep come. The empty bottle of 'Hunter's Helper' rolled onto the floor as Sam fell into a deep, fitful sleep.

The nightmares came, of course they did; they had before, when things started to go wrong, after Jess, after his father, after Gabriel's endless Tuesdays and now, after Dean once more. He had begun to expect them these days, though he never told Dean. The older Winchester had enough on his plate. They were darker too, as if somehow the absence of his brother had obliterated the nightlight of his dreams.


	2. Implode

_Shadows crept and the wind whistled a quietly, tuneless sound, and Sam found himself in the presence of a familiar face indeed._

_"Hello, Sammy-boy," cooed the Devil, stolen eyes glittering. "Missing me yet?" He waved, his fingers dancing._

_"Lucifer," the man hissed through his teeth. He turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him, breathing hard as his lungs caught alight. He stopped, finding himself outside the SucroCorp building. He leaned onto the van outside, trying to get back his breath. He saw the scene shrouded in total blackness, the sky darkening further and cutting off the faint beams of moonlight._

_"Great," he muttered furiously, and as the one who should not be free, could not be free, caught up with him, Sam stopped. He didn't want run anymore. He wanted to fight. A few steady steps headed for him, the crunching of gravel and his own strained breathing the only sounds as Sam braced himself. Clicking on the torch that appeared in his hand and gasped, recoiling. Lucifer had merged into the head of the Leviathans._

_"Sam, do come in," said Dick Roman, the huge bone still lodged in his throat, black blood spurting from his larynx. "We're just about to have dinner."_

_A horde of mouths leaped out from the shadows, the leader storming the way through; Sam cried out in agony, overpowered as they chomped through flesh and skin and bone. He caught the faces of a few of his consumers, huge bloody mouths changing back into human faces: Jo and Ellen and Bobby and even his own father, eyes glassy and dead as they mindlessly tore into him. Dick Roman crept closer and Sam grimaced, suppressing a scream as he saw his own ligaments lodged in the man's teeth. His face morphed back into the smarmy politician, bone still rammed through his throat before changing and shifting once more. This time, it was a face Sam knew well._

_Glittering green eyes fixed on him, so full of dead vivacity that the hunter's blood ran cold. Lifelessness amplified by the lolling head. The off-white bone, brittle and dry, was still rammed through the tender but powerful muscles. Sam could only stare on with a sick, frenzied feeling building in his stomach. Dean's smile grew larger and larger, until the mouth swallowed up his face and only row after row of jagged, bloody teeth remained, split tongue tasting the fear-laced air._

He woke with a start, thrashing and feverish, a low groan leaving his mouth. He was a drunken mess. Seconds ticked by, though they felt like hours, before he composed himself, drawing in as much air as his lungs could hold before letting it all go. The first traces of dawn bled through the slit shutters, watery hues of pink and orange dappling on his weary face. With a defeated groan, he rolled onto his front and attempted to push his heavy body off the bed, but his jelly arms wouldn't comply and the massive man fell face first into the pillow.

The final failure of the mundane activity struck a nerve, and his eyes grew wet with frustration. He punched the pillow, cursing his own inability to do a single thing correctly. With a guttural cry of rage, Sam heaved himself up, standing and shaking with a pounding head as the adverse effects of the hangover struck him like a baseball bat to the head. Bleary-eyed, and with the images of the black-blooded beasts clear in his mind, he stumbled into the bathroom, steadying himself on the wall with a trembling palm.

Brow furrowed in the concentration needed to put one foot in front of the other, the hungover hunter clutched the toothbrush and squinted hard, trying to dispense the toothpaste in a single, straight line. His swimming vision did not aid his aims. The green-and-white paste lay smeared across the bristles and the plastic head and the side of his hand.

Sam groaned before stuffing the brush into his mouth and staring at himself in the mirror, spare hand clutching the side of the sink. Cool ceramic was a welcome feeling against his burning skin. A red-eyed, ragged man with days old darkness dragging his face down blinked back at him. Lips that still stung with the burn of alcohol framed by cheekbones protruding the pale skin, Sam Winchester barely even resembled himself. A light, porous foam clung to his stubble and he spat into the sink, chewing the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the churning in his belly.

He had never been good at dealing with hangovers.

Tossing his worn clothes into the corner, he grimaced at the stench of the garments; he had not changed in the days he spent alone. Leaning forward, Sam doubled over and hands clutching the sink as his stomach turned into a battleground, swaying left and right. Eyes wide and mouth burning, he retched into the toilet bowl, squeezing his eyes shut as his stomach slowly settled. He wiped his lips with a towel before stalking into the shower. His head was bent. The cold water startled him and he yelped, flicking the warm switch. Working the strong motel soap into his skin, the stark smell of disinfectant and cheap chemicals jolted him awake. He stepped out and wrapped a coarse towel around himself, the faint wisps of steam curling out of the bathroom as he rubbed at his hair with the towel. The room smelt faintly of the last resident's strong cigars, noted the man, along with the whiskey he had downed mixed with the light scent of coffee on the bed where he had passed out last night.

_Coffee._ The thought rung true in his head as he dressed, light cotton shirt his first layer followed by the jacket he loved. Tying the laces of his boots, thick leather a comfort against his cramped body and aching feet. His stomach grumbled; he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten anything remotely resembling a solid piece of food. _I'll even take a big, greasy, burger right now._

Sam stood, slinging the bag over his shoulder casting a glance at his rumpled bed and drooled-stained pillow. He frowned as he saw the pristine bed beside the wooden table, opposite his own. The emptiness of the space around suddenly seemed too much, and with a sinking feeling he realized in his stupor he had booked the room he usually shared with Dean, a split, rather than the single he should have asked for.

The sudden insight into what life would be like again without his brother shook him. He departed the room with a sudden urgency, depositing the key on the desk and glancing at the clock nailed to the wall.

_Eight-oh-two. Man, we normally don't leave until ten o'clock - Dean and his beef with mornings._ The thought startled him and he set his lips in a grim line, ready to fight his mind and subconscious to get through the morning. The Impala would be a challenge, he knew; its mere existence screamed Dean, and the fact he saved it meant something to him. He might not have been able to save his brother, but the least he could do was fix up the car for when he returned. He turned to the young man behind the counter, an acne-ridden teenager surrounded by a nervous air.

"Uh, do you know if there are any garages around here?" Sam asked, attempting a friendly smile. The teenager glanced at him, nodding.

"Try Jeremy's Auto, two blocks down." Through the window he spotted the Impala, whose injuries were more evident in the daylight. "Though with that piece of junk, you're better off taking it to the dump!" he joked.

The younger Winchester's jaw tensed as he held the smile, nodding and turning away, fists hidden behind the jacket sleeves._ Jeremy's Auto, Jeremy's Auto, Jeremy's freaking Auto,_ his mind repeated as he resisted the impulse to punch the youngster in that toothy smile. _One thing at a time. Let's fix the Impala._

Sam walked down the street on foot, heading into a small cafe where he ordered a triple-red-eye and a large blueberry muffin to go. Munching as he walked, he returned to the car to observe the damage with a sober eye.

Watery daylight filtered through the thick blanket of cloud before lighting up the battered car. The windows, shattered and scattered in shards across the seat glimmered like fairy-dust, and the usually glossy black paint was chipped and appeared washed out, reduced to an ashy smoke. Scratches defaced the sides and the tyres had worn thanks to the days of non-stop driving, after already being slashed by glass. The left rim had loosened, and one more journey would be all it took for it to clink to the ground.

Sam winced as he took in the finer details, possibly due to his own recklessness when driving; the bent wing-mirror, a headlight smashed and the bumper loosened._ At least it isn't that bad,_ he noted with a sigh. _Not nearly as bad as when Dean first fixed it up. It'll be good as new soon enough - nothing I can't handle._

Heading down to the garage, he tried to hum a tune, but Metallica's Greatest Hits kept replaying in his head; _Enter Sandman_ and _One_ trundled through his mind. He absentmindedly found himself whistling along, outwardly embodying the epitome of peace. He picked up the parts with a little haggling and bartering, paying for them with the pool of his and Dean's remaining cash as the mechanic refused credit cards.

Upon his return to the parking lot, he bought a refreshing beer and settled down on a faded plastic stool dug out from the garage. Being forced to look at the damage again saddened him, and he gazed upon it wistfully. Biting his lip hard, the sharp pain snapping him back to the task at hand, Sam began working, attaching and polishing and cleaning, taping and screwing, and even revving the engine a couple of times to ensure the rough-and-tumble work on the exterior hadn't damaged the engine. As he mended what had once needed to be broken and righted what he had wronged, he felt the load lighten from his back just a little; his hands relished the sturdy work and his mind shut down whilst performing the menial, regular tasks.

Sam was glad that Dean had taught him how to fix the car. He could at least attempt to right one wrong.

He heaved his weary body back up, finished with mending the interior and base, having eliminated the damage to where the Impala's signature growl had returned. She sounded like herself, an achievement of which he was proud. A smear of grease on his chin was brought to his attention by the reflection in the shattered glass, the cracked wing-mirror altering his angular face, splitting it in two.

Sam stared at himself for a moment, and then he laughed aloud at the startled expression on his face. The sun had slipped beneath the clouds again, a shimmering foggy light protruding the dense clouds and lighting up his face. Though he looked tired and worn, an air of satisfaction and success surrounded him. He cracked his knuckles, bracing himself for the last step, and the one on which he was most likely to falter.

He bent down and retrieved the toolkit after hours of working on the windows, relieved that the hardest of jobs was complete. Now, the final menial tasks remained and he did not complain as he worked into the late evening; the sun set beneath the sea and the air grew colder, but still he worked, shivering occasionally as the breeze flapped against the thin fabric of his shirt. Heaving up the hood, he fixed and polished up the engine, even taking the time to touch up the scratches where the glass had scraped the car. _A little black paint should do it,_ he thought, pulling out the fine brush from the bag. Sam managed to cover up the worst of the damage with a decent coat of paint.

_I'll take it to the garage before I leave town, he thought, standing back and observing his work. Get them to give it a real paint job._

And with that thought, he packed up his things carefully, clutching the plastic bag with one hand as he headed back to the motel. The Impala's new coat began to dry in the cool evening air.


	3. Bare

The water looked deep and inviting, cool blue edges trailing like aqua ribbons along the banks._ It could take away all my troubles,_ he thought, leaning against the hood of his missing brother's car. Dean and Castiel were gone, the recoil sending them to God knows where; for all he knew, they could be dead.

He had completed his task, and it had taken him just another two, maybe three days; he'd stopped counting. The Impala was as good as it had had ever been. Baby was back and in full swing, and all Sam wanted to do was hunt again. Get back in the game, back in the swing of things, back to the family business as Dean had so often insisted it to be.

But then again, what point was there in pursuing the family business without family?

Sam gazed at the water again, observing the light hopping over each lap and turn of the smooth crease. He knew that he could do what the angel had once done; simply walk into the water, the waves swirling around his knees, waist and chest, with no intention to come back out again. He could finish this, end the nightmare that had swallowed his whole life. The hunter couldn't help but think of the way he battled death time after time after time, dodging the bullets hurtled at him from every direction. It was a miracle that he had even made it this far, and it was that basic survival instinct rooted deep in his id that prevented him from stepping towards the riverbank._ I can't do it. There has to be a way to find them._

But though he racked his brains, sifting through all the useful and useless knowledge in his great mind, Sam Winchester could find no solution, no help and not a single place to start.

_They're all dead,_ he realized, an icy chill shooting down his back. _Every single one of them, friends, family, allies, all dead. There's no one left who can help me._

The sense of purpose withdrew from him with the same speed it has arrived, leaving a gaping hole in his chest. Sam had been in some sticky situations, and though worse for the wear, he had always returned from them with a dull zinging energy fueled by pure determination; it was what kept him afloat in an ocean of darkness. But now not a single lighthouse of knowledge remained, and he was stranded at sea, his life jacket deflating. He was sinking, lower and lower in the depths of his own despair, the breath squeezed out of his lungs by the sheer shock of the unsettling revelation. Nobody remained to whom he could turn. Nobody could show him the way forward, or shed light on his missing family.

His jaw trembled as he gazed out at the calm river, a solid opposite of the storm churning in his stomach. The quiet words left his lips, barely a whisper carried into the rush of wind.

"I'm alone."


End file.
